This is a Post from Rachel. She didn't Include a Title When She Sent this File to Me. This is Whitney. Also not Including a Title.

If you have read some of our earliest posts, you may remember a man named Franco (a.k.a gay, hairdressing weenie.) In reality, Franco is neither gay, nor a hairdresser, nor an exotic cereal inventor. He is actually a handsome Asian man that likes to flirt with me at work at the most inconvenient times. In my mind, however, he is still always wearing a hotdog suit.

First of all, I’m not really the flirtatious type. I’m not apt to like people in general, and as I’ve already established, I am kind of antisocial at work because I am too busy thinking about all the places I’d rather be and conjuring ways to make the hours go faster (such as counting the day in musical albums rather than in hours, rationing my food to break up the day with snack times, and writing myself lists of all the amazingly fun things I am going to do when I get home, such as...yoga. Or fingernail painting....or...basically anything besides everything I have to do at work.)

I am also not a morning person. I hate it when anyone tries to talk to me in the morning. After ten am, I’m all yours (within reason), but before then, unless you are quietly bringing me a latte and then immediately making yourself scarce, I really want nothing to do with you. I am overall pretty good at disguising my Morning Hatefulness, but Franco caught me at a time when it was making itself inescapably clear.

Apparently I looked really attractive. I mean, who wouldn’t want to hit on THAT, right?

Anyways, so I went to the cafeteria to get myself a bagel, hoping to not encounter anyone I knew. Ok, I actually went and hid in the bathroom for a few minutes when I saw someone else I knew going to the caf, because I really didn’t feel like talking to anyone and didn’t want to enter at the same time for fear of having to make conversation.

So I was at the bagel table, when I started dropping stuff, because I hadn’t had my cup of coffee that morning and I had my headphones in so I kind of had negative 10% alertness going on....and it seems to me, that every time I am dropping things or having an otherwise ridiculous clumsy moment, THAT is when guys choose to approach me. I think it’s because they’re secretly scared to talk to girls so they just lurk in corners and watch for you to do something stupid so that they can pop out and make fun of you for it  so they seem all cool and composed and smooth and whatnot, when really they’re just too chicken to talk to you at your best. Feel free to defend yourselves, guys, but I probably won’t buy it. I’m onto you.

So my half-awake, food and caffeine-deprived brain, that was at that moment using all of its capacity to absorb the Postal Service which was playing on my iPod, took an absurdly long amount of time to understand what was happening, and I stared blankly at him as I tried to think of an adequate comeback. Nothin’. Absolutely nothing.

I must have looked kind of ticked off, because his confident, flirtatious air started to fizzle, and he began backpedaling, with “I’m just...kidding.........”

And then he walked away and I very calmly said something super lame like, “I guess I am just kind of clumsy this morning”, at which he politely chuckled.

After that I hastily got in line to pay for my bagel, and he made another feeble attempt to flirt with me, because he obviously wasn’t getting the picture that I was pretty much at my grumpiest and wanted to be left alone.

Of course, later I thought of many adequate comebacks....well, no, I didn’t. But I could’ve yelled something like, “OH YEAH?? WELL YOU’RE ASIAN!!!”

Which is neither an insult, nor a valid argument, nor even relevant.....but it might’ve caught him off guard long enough for me to make a run for it.

Or I could’ve said, “YOU DON’T HAVE A BEARD!!” which would have been an insult, AND a valid argument, AND an adequate comeback.....all of which only I would have understood. But once again, ample running time.

Bottom line, be warned Francopants. Next time you disturb my morning I’m going to deck you in the face.

Love, Rachel

I don’t feel like writing, so here’s my Christmas card. Nevermind, I actually wrote a lot.

Whitney and Ryan conversation:

Me:  I need to write a blogpost, but I don’t wanna.  I don’t feel funny.

Ryan:  You just told me that you are pregnant with salmonella.

Me: THAT’S NOT FUNNY.  THAT IS SERIOUS.

I am not going to give you any back-story.

Christmas Cards

Now that I’m married, I have to fake being an adult and do things like go to work send out Christmas cards.  Whoever whomever? started this tradition which forces me to stress about, and then send pictures of myself to people who don’t remember me, was an idiot.  I’m googling this idiot.

John Calcott Horsley 1817-1903. 

He doesn't really look like he invented the Christmas card, but I guess everyone needs a hobby.

“I invented Christmas cards and child abuse because THOSE STUPID KIDS WON’T STAND STILL AND I JUST WANT THIS PICTURE TO CAPTURE HOW BEAUTIFUL OUR FAMILY IS.  PLEASE JUST THIS ONCE.  FOR MOMMY.  MOMMY IS GOING TO CRY AND USE PHOTOSHOP.”

 Thankfully, I am not a mommy, and I have no idea how to use photoshop.  I’m not sending out Christmas cards because I like to push the hilarious boundaries that a flamboyant British man established in the 1800s.  BUT, I will show you my Christmas card and EVEN write an annoying Christmas letter filled with stuff that I think is cool about my life, but that significantly lowers your respect for me because you thought that I spent my time rescuing orphans, but really I just spent a year playing Super Mario and eating.

Dear estranged family members and people whom I don’t know but came to my wedding,

Well, it’s that time of year again!  That time of year when implied social law demands that I send you a card which inclides with pictures of a baby in a lobster pot adorable pictures, a witty one-liner, and an out-of-context Bible verse.  I couldn’t fit my Bible verse on my card, but here is one of my holiday favorites:

“I wish those who unsettle you would emasculate themselves!”
Galatians 5:12

May you all carefully reflect on Paul’s words during this holiday season.

I would like to thank those of you who sent us Christmas cards and letters!  It was so nice to see that those kids you have that I forgot about have grown up so well!  Really starting to look like mommy and daddy aren’t they?  How wonderful.  Make sure you give my phone number to the one who looks like George Clooney once he turns eighteen.  Haha, I’m just making awkward jokes because I can.  Many of you asked us if we have yet to be blessed with a child.  And then when we so "no," you recommend that "we get going." What a well-though-out completely inappropriate comment!  No, Ryan and I do not have kids, because I met one once.  Also, I will have no idea what to do with it.  If it’s a girl, I’ll have to tell her she's not fat, and also invent ways to raise her self-esteem.  And outlaw Barbies.  Unless it's like...Oily Complex Barbie.  If it’s a boy, that means that the toilet seat will be left up twice as much, and consequently, I will fall in the toilet twice as much.  I’ll still include a picture of a baby though.  A baby in a lobster pot.

As far as what I’ve done with my life this year, I once acted out an episode of Jersey Shore.  Ryan has been much more prolific, but he also acted out an episode of Jersey Shore.  We have a cat.  I threaten to drop-kick it a lot.  I do drop-kick it a lot.

Love,

Whitney, Ryan, and Rimsky 


PS  Enclosed is the address “of the apartment I am moving to, so please send next year’s Christmas card here.”

New Address

Nope.  I’m not creative enough to think of a fake address.


PS that has unrelated to the Christmas letter.  We have a fan page up on facebook now because I want to meet Tina Fey.  Don’t try to make the connection.

-Whitney

Zombie Apocalypse for Dummies

Surgery is my favorite thing in the world.  I’m not having surgery, and I haven’t had surgery recently, but today I was reminiscing about how the only time I ever get any decent sleep is during surgery.  AND after surgery, the doctor comes in and is all like “can I get you some toast” and I’m like “duh.”  Then he even lets me pick a flavor of jam and also when I get home my mom is all like, “would you like some vicodin and Chinese food?”  Basically, 90% of the good things that happen in my life occur about three hours post-op.  I’ve only had surgery twice and it was on my pinky fingers.

This has nothing to do with my story, but I’m tired.  In fact, I’m SO tired that I sent several family members a nonsense underwear-related email.  Stockings are for underwear and toothpaste, and I wanted to get this right.

“Do you want special Christmas underwear?  I can only assume that Christmas underwear would make you feel all tingly from the magic of Christmas being so near your butt.  I don't know what I meant by that.  I should stop studying and go to bed.  And I'll get you regular underwear.”

I haven’t slept in a week.  Also, beware, anyone in my family...beware of Christmasy underwear.

I HAVE ONE MORE STORY BEFORE MY REAL STORY!

I was at Best Buy purchasing a few non-undergarment-related presents.  I had to stand in line for about an hour because that is what Christmas is all about.  By the time I reached the front of the line I was sweating shining with Christmas magic and grumpy not grumpy.  One of the Best Buy employees was sorting us into lines. 

DIALOGUE REENACTMENT!

Employee: Hey KIddo!

Me: Kiddo?  I’m like...married and crap.

Employee: **Squints at me, puts both hands on her hips, bends down and stares directly into my eyes** Does somebody need a cookie?

Me: **Pouts** Yes.

The moral of the story is...take cookies from strangers.  I assumed the cookie was poisonous, but I ate it anyway because I was hoping for surgery.  Also there is a very age-confused woman working at Best Buy.

ACTUAL STORY!

I feel like complaining.  Like complaining about the Zombie Apocalypse.  Because it’s stupid.  I think I am in a bad mood because I have two different brands of contacts in my eye and one is thicker than the other and you should probably pity me because I’m like Quasimodo except instead of the Hunchback of Notre-Dame, I’m the Bumpy Eye of My Particular Apartment Complex. 

Anyway, more often than one would expect, I am asked silly questions like, “Who would win in a fight: zombies or unicorns?  What about zombies or vampires.”  And I reply with, “Let me answer your question with a question.  Is there any trick to remembering how to spell “breath” versus “breathe?”  Then no ones’ questions are answered, and I have probably written a lot of awful papers in which I “took a deep breathe.”  Also, zombies will never win anything.  Here’s my book “The Zombie Apocalypse for Dummies.”

 I hope you all have a very neutral holiday,


-Whitney


PS A huge "thank you" to John from Strange Weapon of the Week, for some blogging tips.  Go check out his site if you want to learn about awesome things like vomit guns.  Seriously.  It's a thing.

‘Tis the Season of Disillusionment and Squandered Dreams.

As a little girl, I was always kind of sensitive and anxious and didn’t really like to be away from my mom’s side for very long. 

One year, a few weeks before Christmas, my dad was out of town so my mom had to do all of the shopping herself. She was about to leave me in the care of my big brother and sister--which was in and of itself enough to scare the pants off of any child. These were the people that had once tied me up inside of a laundry basket and left me there, and had also at another time nearly blinded me with bathroom cleaner spray...and let’s not forget the time they slammed my finger in a door hinge!!! But I digress.

I really didn’t want my mom to leave that day, so I kind of threw a nasty fit that was probably inappropriate for my age. I really don’t remember how old I was, but I was probably just a little bit older than I would admit if I did.

My mom quickly got fed up with my amazing display of drama, and burst out with,

THERE.

IS. 

NO. 

SANTA CLAUS!!!!!

**picture of my mom that doesn't really look like my mom.

She went on with, "Do you know how your presents get under the tree? I put them there!! And the only way for you to get presents this year is for you to shut up and let me go shopping RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!"

My mom tells me this  story every year, despite the fact that I remember it quite vividly without her help.

Bah humbug.

Happy Christmas, everyone.


-Rachel

Timmy, Whaddya Tase?

Classes are all finished now, and I only have three finals next week, so I think I win.  Every semester around this time I get stressed out and threaten to quit school and do something ridiculous for the orphans.  This year I plan on quitting school and opening a classy bowling alley. 

Me: Ryan, I want to quit school and open a bowling alley.

Ryan:  Please think about what you’re saying. Do you really want to associate with the “bowling crowd?”

Me: Rednecks need love too, Ryan.  But, I’m not going to associate with them, I am going to “own” them.  It’s for the greater good.

Ryan:  Mullets are not for the greater good.  They are all business in the front and a party in the back.

Me: WAIT. A. MINUTE.

Ryan: What?

Me:  CLASSY BOWLING ALLEY.  There will be martinis and a discotheque.  That’s what kids are into, right?

Ryan: Discotheque?

Me: I’m pretty sure Obama said something like that.

Ryan: Where?

Me: In Time Magazine.

I’m really looking out for the children.

REAL STORY

Since “LOL 4 Dummies”  seemed to force me to threaten many people with free boats teach many of you an important lesson, I thought that I’d continue with the “4 Dummies” series with “The Zombie Apocalypse 4 Dummies.”

THEN, one afternoon I was wasting time on YouTube, and searched “Taser,” (don’t question my antics) and from the videos that popped up, it became apparent to me that someone needs to teach people what should and what shouldn’t be tasered.  tased.  tasered.  tased.  I am currently setting my “4 Dummies” efforts aside to dabble in children's literature.  This first book is really moving is titled “Timmy, Whaddya Tase?”

You might have to click on the pictures to read the text.  Sorry it's so small, but I'm an author, not a magical make text bigger wizard.

See?  I'm an American hero.

-Whitney

PS When I gave you my twitter name and was all like, "hey, follow me," I didn't mean for you to open a new twitter account with the names like "Cinnamon DeepLusty,"  take a topless picture of yourself, and THEN follow me on Twitter. 

PPS I want to do some serious pimping out of this blog.  I know NOTHING about html stuff, so if anyone is willing to help me out, shoot me an email.  I don't really have money, but I'll give you my firstborn. Ryan.  a shout-out for your blog or something.

The Stache Stash That Discourages Friendship

This post is going to be short because I’m going to ROFL Reduce Optimism in Foreign Lands.  That won’t make any sense unless you’ve read this.  But seriously, this is going to be short and possibly unfunny because I’m tired from spending my morning conducting a choir of 45 girls who were probably all judging me for what I was wearing really impressed with my skillzs.

I thought I’d introduce you all to my Stache Stash.  What’s a Stache Stash you ask?  It is what happens when you get married when you’re 20. It’s not a disease.  Hold on, and I’ll explain.

STORY

I had this conversation about 42 times after I got back from my honeymoon:

Friend: Oh my goodness, how was your honeymoon!?  I bet it was like so totally super romantic!!!!! LOL!

Me:  LOL OMGEE IT LIKE SO TOTALLY WAS We bought fake mustaches. 

Friend:  Uh, what?

Whitney:  It’s really nice because when I put one on you can’t even tell who I am.  Plus, it emphasizes the physical similarities between myself and Andy Reid.

Friend: ...

Whitney:  Umm, I’ll be right back.

And then I put on one of my fake mustaches and none of my 42 friends ever recognized me again.  They also never tried to call, so I put them on my special list because I’m sure they’re all very busy.

All of the mustaches are now stuck on the mirrors of my car.  If you are ever in trouble with the law, let me know because I’ll come rescue you and hook you us with an array of disguises.  Here, look at my pretty pictures.

You can put them on the mirror so you can see how awesome you look being in disguise

I do have a story though about how the Stache Stash does not help me make friends because sometimes I forget about the Stache Stash and how it usually requires a small explanation.

STORY 2

Once upon a time, I was giving a girl from school a ride to her apartment.  The sun was shining, so I lowered my mirror to block the sun...thus revealing Stache Stash.  Then the following happened:

*Girl eyes Stache Stash and looks a little scared*
*I think one thing, but says something else completely out of context*

Me: It’s okay.  I’m married.

Girl: Oh, how nice.

Me: No, I mean it’s okay that I have fake mustaches in my car because they half belong to my husband and also they help disguise us and emphasize the physical likeness between myself and Andy Reid.

Girl: You can pull over here.

Me: I’m normal!

Girl: You can pull over here.


Friendship averted earned.

-Whitney

Crouched down in secrecy

*UPDATED* Tina Fey Did Not Comment on My Blog and I am Saving All of the Birds

I did have a favorite comment this week!

“Anonymous said...
Whitney I love you”

Anonymous can be anyone, so naturally I’m assuming it is Tina Fey.  I was going to chisel her an award on a sheet of solid gold, but I don’t have a chisel.  So I’m going to write her an awkward very heartfelt letter.

Dear Tina Fey,

Today I had this conversation with my husband:

Me:  Look at me playing with the cat AND stirring macaroni.  I’m multitasking!

Ryan: But are you also pooping? That’s what Tina Fey would do.

Me:  You’re right.

**Several seconds pass**

Me: Umm...don’t come in here.

Tina, THAT is dedication to your advice.  And THIS is a picture you being a little risque and cartoon me not being very risque because I can’t draw that.  I look a little scared, but I think that's healthy.

I saw the other day that you anonymously commented on one of my blog-posts.  There is no need to be anonymous, Tina.  How are we going build an everlasting friendship if we’re both continually sending anonymous mail to each other? I have a picture of your face tattooed on my bicep.  And, people who leave comments on my blog are practically family, so I thought I’d share one of my irrational fears with you.  I am afraid of icicles falling off of buildings and stabbing me in the part of my brain that controls bladder function.  Or like...finger nail growth rate.  Something awful.  For this reason, I have added a hardhat to my Christmas list.

Whitney

PS  I would also like you to know that I watched you receive the Mark Twain Prize for American humour, and I thought your speech was very racist prolific.  

ACTUAL STORY

For those of you who aren’t aware, I have spent the past month painstakingly plagiarizing writing a research paper which led me to write two incredibly valid emails to Aquaman and the United States’ Congress.  Neither responded, but that’s not the point.  The point is that we can now deduce that Aquaman is dead. 

Anyway, my actual assignment was to write an eight-page research paper about something to do with the BP oil spill.  I asked my teacher if I could write about how I think Aquaman died from the oil spill and maybe also I’d throw in something about birds.  She said, “How about just the bird part?”  And then her eyes got kind of glassy, and I can only assume that she was remembering how, earlier this semester, I turned in a paragraph about how I sometimes run outside to yell at birds if they wake me up too early.  Then I’m pretty sure I watched her try to figure out how to get me transferred to another class so late in the semester.


That was a recap.  Now onto the new stuff.  I researched birds, and like, all the birds are dying, you guys.  Some people have even quit their jobs to go down to the Gulf of Mexico to clean the oily birds.  So I decided that I really should do something for nature since it is always there for me when I turn on Animal Planet when I run twenty yards, walk another twenty yards, and then post on as my facebook status “just ran like 5 miles!”.  I wanted to do something for birds in particular since they have been a part of my life for the past couple of weeks.

What could I do though?  All the birds have migrated, so I can’t go feed them or anything.  I sat at the window and stared up at the trees like you would expect in the post break-up scene of a movie that has the word “sleepover” in the title, while I contemplated what I could do for the birds that they would appreciate once they got back in the Spring.  Looking up at the trees made me think about woodpeckers, and that’s when the brilliant idea hit:  woodpeckers make holes in trees.  I have no idea why they do this, but it really doesn’t matter.  Woodpeckers like hole-y trees, and I can make hole-y trees.  I armed myself with a fork and headed outside to make some tree holes.  I figured no one would believe me so I asked my mom to take some pictures.  This is how a couple of those conversations went down:

Mom

Me: Mom, I really need you to come outside and take a picture of me stabbing a tree with a fork.

Mom:  Okay, but we have to do it now because I need to leave.

Ryan

Me: Today I had my mom take a picture of me stabbing a tree with a fork.

Ryan: Good.  Did you know we’ve almost been married for one year and four months?

You guys, people are learning to tune me out and that terrifies me is probably for the best.

But here is the picture of me stabbing a tree for the birds:

Now I have to start writing a new paper.  The paper has to be an argument, so I’m all set to argue about why I should not have to pay for tampons politics?.

-Whitney

PS I’m thinking about writing a eulogy for Aquaman, so if you’d like to contribute a little something, leave a comment with your final words to Aquaman, or shoot me an email at rachelandwhitney@gmail.com.

PPS  I’m starting a “Zombie Apocalypse 4 Dummies,”  but I have a lot of exams this week, so you guys will have to be patient.


PPPS  Some people have asked if Claire's ever responded to my email.  They did not, but they are seriously going to regret it when all of the twelve year-old girls are clamoring about "baton head."

PPPPS  I finally got on the Twitter train. Wbradlaaaay is my name or whatever you call it.  If you say some "@" me, it will probably take at least two months for me to get back to you, because I don't know how to use "@" yet.


**UPDATE**  People have left me comments and sent me email claiming that they are Tine Fey, so I think you all need to comment or send me an email give me a reason WHY you are Tina Fey, and then I'll pick a winner and thou shalt be crowned TINA FEY.

-Whitney

Also, you can be expecting a post very soon about my "stache stash" so stay tuned or else *very intimidating threat*